random art

I was not a very creative person on the medication. My art was robotic; I drew with straight lines and couldn’t fathom new landscapes for the life of me.


I had no eye for composition or interest. I drew whatever snapshot I took or saw. cardCITYSPACE2Screen Shot 2016-10-27 at 9.39.03 AMI revisited this one and tried to complete it and failed.Screen Shot 2017-03-29 at 4.19.52 PM




Haven’t drawn in a long, long time – sketched these at work at an outdoor day camp for kids at Mt Seymour. Jeffrey is our frog mascot. The top is a whiskey jack. I hope to get back into drawing – I think it’s improved in the 8 months or so that I didn’t draw (the artist in my brain never turns off apparently).


I’m slowly tapering off the medication. It’s taking way longer than I expected – although tapering was easy at first, as I passed the halfway mark, I had to slow down, and again when I reached the next halfway mark, I had to taper even more slowly. This is a lesson I’ve had to learn through trial and error. If I miss a dose while tapering on such a low dosage, I can barely function from the fluctuation of chemicals in my brain. It’s insane to think that I wrote an entry when this all started, and that here I am now, writing a wrap-up. I never thought I’d see this day; I might be counting all my eggs in the basket for all I know. Next term/year I will graduate and I will officially be an adult. The thought isn’t as scary as it once was.

Depression still isn’t a word I like to use. I don’t want to admit how badly it scares me that I’m genderfluid/queer/nonconforming. Dark thoughts about transitioning and being outcasted by my friends and moving through life without a social script threaten to tsunami. On the other hand, I have never been happier embracing my masculine side as well as the feminine one, and reading up about the queer experience and writing it all down. One day I’ll be spokesperson; but today, I suffer in silence, afraid of what opening up would do to my social life.

Anxiety: I’m anxious that people will find out my secret, that I’m not like them. Why am I so scared of that? Because I’m keenly aware that I’m different and that I can fail to pass. “Passing” – a terrifying word in its own right. In my head I fail to pass and I fail miserably. I lose friends and outlaw myself in my mind because of my difference. In reality this probably isn’t true, but the anxiety from it is so bad somedays it becomes social anxiety and I just can’t function. The energy required to pass is too great.

My head still really hurts from missing a dose last night and I feel vulnerable, but I did manage to have some great moments at work today, including a louder-than-life singing party in the company van ride down and fun with using 10 year old beacons with the kids. It’s not easy (nor is it easy for anyone) but it’s slowly coming together. One day I dream of having the life spent purely outdoors that I want and writing for a job…




Even when I am holding him, with his heartbeat in my hands

I can feel its wings, beating gently against the meaty breast of my palm

Vying for my attention

Uncaged, wild, it asserts its territory over my heart

Singing in a mother tongue I’d forgotten I knew


Like a half forgotten song sung half asleep,

I chase its delirious meaning from daybreak to dusk

Its melody inscribes itself into the line I trace with my eye to the next voluptuous figure and when I wipe the sweat from my brow to hide my gaze when we are out in public

I beg it to bide its time

And it begs to be let free


I try to explain

This cage is big enough only for one

I was happy the day she came out of the woods

But now I don’t want her and I can’t forget her melody

So while I hold onto his hand

I hum along gently

And we rest together in my cage

Three hearts beating in perfect harmony


The road winds on forever and ever. Rory can’t take it anymore. She can’t remember the last time her sunkissed skin rubbed anything other than the arm of her brother beside her, or the whine of their ‘95 Corolla didn’t permeate her entire being. Some vacation. Right now they were chugging up yet another cliffside highway, Mom gripping the steering wheel as if it were about to fly away and Dad silent as a tombstone next to her. She’d already read through her entire collection of mystery novels and no one had texted her. She’d rather be at home. (She wants to be let out of this car, this family.)

The only thing that calms her is her collection of rocks and other knick knacks. She’d picked one up at each stop they’d made along the way. There is a whole bag of them, some of them so tiny they almost slip through the cracks of her hands and out of memory. At first, Mom and Dad had prodded her to pick out the mementos, but as her collection grew, their enthusiasm abated. It sagged against her thighs, trapped in an old pillowcase and spilled past the invisible line between her brother and her. It sprawled like a city out of control, like someone who didn’t care. It made sweat pool at the backs of her thighs and glued her to the peeling pleather seats.

The stifling heat reaches a fever pitch and Rory licks her dry lips. “Dad, will you roll down the window?”

“Sure, honey,” her dad says in a zombie-like monotone. He clutches a few times before his hand lands on the window crank. Eeek, Eek, Eek. As the window inches down, a mosquito that’s been in the car buzzes, trying to cling on, and is sucked into the crack.

“Can we stop at the next next gas station, instead of the next?” Rory sucks in the new air, wishing the stale air would circulate faster. /as if that would make the stale air circulate faster.

Dad touches his neck. “Your mom will be the judge of that.”

To her left, Cory mumbles something incomprehensible and jabs his elbow into her side. Rory’s irritation flares slightly now that her brother is awake.

“Ow, Cory.”

“Are we at the washrooms yet?” Cory’s speech is slurred by sleep. His hair is dishevelled beyond repair.

“Can’t we wait?” Rory whines. Dad shoots a pointed look at her pillowcase. If they make another stop, Rory will add to it. As Rory shifts to unstick her thighs, the knicknacks make a plastic clack.

Cory rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “I’ve been holding it since the last stop. How long was that, Dad?”

“We’ll get off at the next stop,” Dad reassures him. But Rory can see the battle inside his head.

Rory glances into the rearview mirror to see how Mom reacts. She hasn’t. But by now, Rory knows that that the slightest thinning of her lips, carefully crafted to conceal her tiredness and burning fuse, means she’s almost reached her limit. She doesn’t dare call out: Mom? The last time she did that, the car nearly swerved into oncoming traffic.

Mom hasn’t spoken a word since they left their grandparents’ house two hundred and sixty miles ago.